


nothing is dearer

by limitedbycreativity



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, ASoIaF Kink Meme, Daughters, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen, Happy Starks, Love, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, some mentions of blood and minor injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:05:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limitedbycreativity/pseuds/limitedbycreativity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It was all Arya’s fault, really. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>It had been her idea to leave their septa behind, and to race through the godswood. Usually, Sansa would have said ‘no’, but that morning their father had come down to breakfast and had grinned at Arya, wearing yesterday’s dirty tunic with tangled hair, in a way that he would never smile at Sansa."</i>
</p>
<p>In which Sansa feels jealous of her sister's Stark resemblance, and after an injury, Ned is determined to show her she needn't be. Inspired by <a href="http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/17634.html?thread=12321250#t12321250">this Kink Meme prompt</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing is dearer

**Author's Note:**

> (this was also posted on LJ.)
> 
> Once again, back with a Kink meme fill! The inspiration just won't stop hitting. :) And of course, I never turn down the opportunity to imagine happy Starks. 
> 
> The prompt for this story was: _Sansa finds herself feeling jealous of Arya, in how she believes that her father favors her sister because she reminds him of Lyanna while not caring for her because of her southern interests. Thus, she attempts to mimic her sister and ends up grievously hurting herself. After discovering the reasoning for his Sansa's actions Ned is wretched with guilt and is determined to share with Sansa what she has in common with his beloved sister._
> 
> This got a little long, but I hope you all enjoy it! And if s/he sees it, I hope this is something akin to what the OP had in mind.

It was all Arya’s fault, really.

Sansa huffed out a breath, her cheeks still damp from tears as Maester Luwin carefully wrapped her bloody knees in bandages. 

It had been Arya’s idea to leave their septa behind, and to race through the godswood. Usually, Sansa would have said ‘no’, not wanting to muddy her pretty shoes or dress (Arya didn’t have such concerns – Arya wore ugly boys clothes), but that morning their father had come down to breakfast and had grinned at Arya, wearing yesterday’s dirty tunic with eternally-tangled hair and still half asleep, in a way that he would never smile at Sansa. It had made her throat clench, and she had barely touched her food.

Arya was on rare form today and took the attention away from Sansa, luckily, as she hadn’t focused as hard in lessons as usual, and it would have annoyed the septa. Sansa was busy thinking about other things.

Mother had talked about their dead uncle Brandon, and aunt Lyanna, and Father sometimes told them stories about them if he was in a good mood and had had ale at dinner. Sansa knew that Arya was like aunt Lyanna – Father had said as much, at times when Arya came into the hall with muddy knees and hands and hair even messier than usual, or when she chased after Robb, Jon and Theon. ‘ _You remind me of my sister, sometimes_ ’, he would tell her. Apparently, Sansa reminded him of no one. He would say that she was a little Southern lady, like her mother, but Sansa thought that he didn’t like that too much. He liked Arya’s northern attitude more. 

And so, when Arya had challenged her to a race through the woods on their afternoon walk, her expression already anticipating rejection, Sansa decided to set aside her ladylike sensibilities. ‘ _I can be like you_ ,’ she thought, ‘ _I’ll show you, and I’ll show Father_ ,’

But Sansa did not know the godswood like Arya did, had not spent as much time running and exploring it, and so while Arya set off through the trees nimbly and quickly, Sansa barely managed to keep up. They had just run far enough that their septa’s calls were distant when Sansa tripped over a tree root and fell to the ground. Her knees had been scraped and bloodied, and her hands too where she had put them out to stop her fall. Her chin had hit the ground, despite that, and she had tasted the warm iron of blood on her tongue. She cried for the pain, and then cried harder because she had never seen Arya cry. Arya got up and got on with it, and Sansa hated that she could not.

Arya had run back to her big sister and helped her up, telling her that she was all right and it would be okay, and the concern and fear on her face reminded Sansa more of her father than ever.

Hearing the cries, the septa had sped up and found the two girls, and in a display of strength Sansa would never have thought Septa Mordane capable of, she picked Sansa up and carried her back to the castle, Arya at her heels like a worried puppy. Jory Cassel had come across them in the yard, and carried Sansa the rest of the way to her room. Sansa had not stopped crying, the whole way – later, as she lay abed with the maester tending her, she felt ashamed of her tears. She was nine years old, and a daughter of Eddard Stark, she should know better. Arya had been frightened by it, and when Jory went to fetch their mother and the maester, had also burst into tears, and Septa Mordane was left to comfort both girls, despite Sansa momentarily being startled into silence at her sister’s crying.

Mother had been worried, of course, and fretted awfully over Sansa, kissing her face and hands and knees, and when the maester had arrived, she had bundled the sobbing Arya into her arms and left the room to comfort her younger daughter. The maester’s ointment stung her palms and knees, but the bandages were soft, and he had given her water to swill her mouth out and told her she had bitten her cheek in the fall, but would be perfectly fine. Her mother had brought Sansa a lemon cake to cheer her up, and stood behind her to brush her hair, humming a lullaby as she always did. That was when her father arrived, concern etched on his face, and the treat suddenly tasted sickly on her tongue.

“Sansa,” Father said, sitting on the side of the bed and cupping her face in his big hands. To her mortification, tears welled again in Sansa’s eyes. “Are you well, child? Jory said you fell in the godswood,”

The question was directed at her, but Sansa saw him looking over her head, at Mother, and Sansa thought maybe he didn’t like seeing Southern features on a daughter of his. It wasn’t fair. She wanted to look like Lyanna, too.

“She’s all right, Ned,” Mother said softly when Sansa didn’t answer. “Maester Luwin has examined her, and said she is fine.”

“What happened?” Father was gently holding one of her bandaged hands now, turning them over and running big fingers over her palms.

“Arya wanted to race,” Sansa spoke at last, sounding more miserable than she meant to. Father looked up at her in surprise.

“Racing with Arya?”

He looked over her head again, and Sansa heard a sound behind her that told her Mother was nodding. Arya had probably told her what happened.

Father looked back to her, smiling slightly. “Why did you take her up on that, Sansa? You never run with your brothers and sister,”

Sansa looked down, pulling her damaged hands away from him and folding them in her lap. Her father’s hands settled instead on her knees, thumbs running over the sore scrapes soothingly. Her mother’s fingers continued to run through her hair.

“I wanted to be more like Arya,” she said at length. Mother made a surprised noise from behind her, but she said nothing.

“Why, Sansa?” Father sounded bemused. The prickling of her eyes intensified, and Sansa felt her throat grow tight. She did not want to answer, and definitely did not want to cry in front of him, but her father stayed expectantly quiet, and Sansa couldn’t help herself. It was unladylike to lie.

“Y-you like her more than me,” she finally whispered into the silent room, only a hiccup belying how close to tears she was. Sansa was proud of herself for that. She hadn’t done much else she was proud of today. There were a few long moments of quiet, time enough for Sansa to compose herself. Her mother had stopped stroking her hair, and instead rested her hands on Sansa’s shoulders. Feeling emboldened, she risked raising her head up and the look on Father’s face made the tears come back full force.  The next thing she knew she was in her father’s arms, face pressed into the nape of his neck and hands clinging to his jerkin. She wasn’t aware of her mother slipping out of the room.

Eventually, she felt her father shifting backwards onto the bed, settling Sansa in his lap and looking her in the eye. His thumbs wiped the fresh tears from her face.

“Sansa, my love,” he murmured, brow furrowed, “Why would you ever, ever think that?”

The hurt in his voice made Sansa well up again. “Because she looks like you, like Aunt Lyanna, and she acts like her too, you always say so, and I’m not like her, I don’t even look like a northerner and you don’t like the south,” she babbled, rubbing at her eye with a fist. She paused for breath, and sniffled pathetically. “I just wanted you to smile at me like you do at Arya.”

Ned did not answer for a long moment, but his hold on her intensified, his chin coming to rest on the crown of her head. Sansa clung tightly to him, breathing in the smell of her father.

“I love you very much, Sansa,” he finally told her, voice quiet. Sansa wanted to sit back and look at him, but his embrace was too comforting, as was the thud of his heartbeat beneath her ear. “You were my first babe born in peace, my first little girl, the first I saw grow inside your mother. I got to hold you just minutes after you were born, and see your sweet eyes open for the first time. I never got that with your brother, you know.”

Sansa did know. The Stark children had been raised on stories of their father’s bravery during Robert’s Rebellion, and they knew he had been away fighting when Robb was born.

Her father continued. “Those memories are very special to me, Sansa. You’re very special to me, as special as all of your siblings. Do you really think I love Arya more because she’s like— because she looks like me?”

“She reminds you of your sister,” Sansa said stubbornly. “And you lost her.”

She felt her father swallow. “Aye, I did. But Arya is no replacement, just as you are not here for filling empty boots. She looks like your aunt, yes, and sometimes acts like her too, but I see my sister in you, too,”

Now, that couldn’t be true. He had never told her so before. Sansa reared back and looked up at him, scowling indignantly, but before she could say anything he started chuckling. “Right there. She used to frown at me in exactly the same way whenever she was annoyed.”

Sansa’s mouth fell ajar and her forehead smoothed. She reached up and ran a hand over the skin there. “You’ve never told me that,”

“You don’t frown enough.” Father smiled, but it looked sad. “You’re a respectable little lady that way,”

Sansa’s lips turned downward, “And you don’t like that?”

“I love that, Sansa, because it’s you,” Father said, smoothing her red hair with one hand. “But you grew up so quickly - I wouldn’t have minded if you’d stayed my little girl a bit longer,”

Sansa pressed her face back into his chest to hide her face. “I’ll always be your little girl, Papa!”

They sat in silence for a long moment, just hugging, before Father said, “And as for disliking the south – you know I was fostered at the Eyrie, I do not hate the south.” 

“I look like—”

“You look like your mother, Sansa, and I love your mother very much,” 

Sansa fell quiet. Father rubbed her back in soothing circles.

“And I love Arya very much, I love the boys very much, and I love you very much,” he continued, and then fell quiet. Eventually, he said, practically whispering, “And I loved my sister very much, too. I see her in Arya, yes, and in you. You’re determined, like her, and clever, like her, and she would never do anything she did not want to. You may not run through the woods like she and Arya did, or play with the boys, or get muddy, but there was a lot more to her than that,” 

Sansa’s head was beginning to ache with tiredness after all that had happened that day, just as her heart was fit to burst with love. She snuggled closer to her papa. 

“I’m sleepy,” she told him through a yawn after a few moments, and she allowed Father to lay her onto her bed and pull the covers up around her. When he tried to leave, however, Sansa refused to release his hand, and so he stayed with her until she fell asleep. 

And, much later, as Ned Stark left his older daughter’s room, he looked down at her sleeping form and smiled in a way Sansa never truly registered. In a way only meant for her.


End file.
